Miss Silver registered approval.

“A very sensible idea. Your friend has children?”

“Two-and such a nice Nannie. David loves going there, and I shall be much happier about him.”

Miss Silver polished a tablespoon and laid it down on a baize-covered tray.

“People are sadly incautious about what they say in front of children,” she observed.

“They are frightful! Hilda Price was here this morning- you know, she comes to Aunt Renie on Wednesdays and Fridays-and I’m sure as far as getting on with her work was concerned she might just as well have stayed at home, because all she could do was talk about Connie. I told her when she came that I didn’t want David to hear anything, and she agreed with every word, and then about five minutes later there she was, talking to Aunt Renie at the top of her voice, going over some long story about Connie having gone up to the Parsonage in tears on Tuesday evening.”

Miss Silver finished the last tablespoon and began on the forks.

“Indeed?”

Joyce gave an emphatic nod.

“And there was David only a yard away drinking it all in. Aunt Renie should have known better, even if Hilda didn’t. Of course, I hustled him off to play in the garden at once, and I stayed around to see that he didn’t come back.”

Miss Silver said in a thoughtful voice,

“And pray how did Hilda Price come to know what had happened at the Parsonage?”

“Well, she has a sister-in-law who is a cousin of Mrs. Gurney who keeps the village shop, and she had it from Mrs. Emmott who is a friend of the parson’s housekeeper, Mrs. Needham.”

Miss Silver was not unaccustomed to villages. She found this a perfectly satisfactory explanation.

“Pray continue, Mrs. Rodney.”

“I do wish you would call me Joyce.”

“I really do not think it would be wise. I should like to know what is being said about Connie Brooke’s visit to the Parsonage.”

Joyce put the last plate up in the rack and emptied the washing-bowl.

“Mrs. Needham told Mrs. Emmott, and she told Mrs. Gurney, that Connie had been crying. She said her eyes were all red and swollen. She rang up, you know, and Mr. Martin was out. Mrs. Needham said she thought Connie was crying and she was dreadfully upset because he wasn’t there. Then whilst she was speaking he came in, so Connie said she would come along. Mrs. Needham was very much put out because of it being his supper time. She hates people like poison when they come and bother him at meal times, so she probably lurked in the hall and clattered with the tray. Anyhow she was there when Connie went away, because she heard Mr. Martin say that she had better think it well over, and if she really did know who was writing those poisonous letters it would be her duty to go to the police. Mrs. Needham said Connie cried dreadfully and said things like ‘Oh, poor Doris!’ and she didn’t know what to do but once she had said it she couldn’t take it back, could she? And Mr. Martin said no, she couldn’t, and got out his own handkerchief and gave it to her, which seems to have annoyed Mrs. Needham quite a lot. And he told Connie to go home and think it over. If that was all over the village by Wednesday, and I expect it was, because I know we had it here, the person who wrote the letters would have heard about it too.”

Miss Silver said, “Yes.”

“I thought at the rehearsal that Connie looked as if she had been crying her eyes out. If she really knew who had written those letters-but how could she-”

“Some accident may have placed her in possession of a clue. Pray finish what you were going to say.”

Joyce looked at her in a distressed manner.

“Well, it looks as if it was someone she knew quite well. She wouldn’t have been so distressed if it wasn’t. And that ties in with her going to see Tommy Martin and coming away in floods of tears without telling him anything. You see, when Mrs. Needham heard her say, ‘Once I’ve said it I can’t take it back, can I?’ and Tommy said no she couldn’t, and to think it well over, well it does sound as if perhaps she just couldn’t face up to it and Miss Maggie’s tablets might have been the answer. Do you think it was like that?”

Miss Silver looked at her with gravity.

“There is another possibility, Mrs. Rodney. The person who wrote those letters would have been ruined by exposure. He, or she, would have had a very strong motive for silencing Connie Brooke.”

Randal March drew up at Willow Cottage at a little after half past three on the following afternoon, whereupon Miss Silver came out of the front door in her black cloth coat and the new hat which she had intended to wear for the wedding. After an unbroken succession of black felts trimmed with ribbon and little bunches of flowers it really was, as Ethel Burkett had declared, “Quite a change,” being more of a toque, and the material black velvet. Three pompons nestled against the crown, grey, black, and lavender. As they drove away, Randal said with an affectionate smile,

“Surely that is a new hat. I like those what-you-may-call-’ems at the side.”

Miss Silver experienced a glow of modest pleasure. She supplied the name.

“They are pompons.”

“Most becoming.”

From this promising opening they proceeded to solicitous enquiries from Miss Silver and a budget of family news on the part of Randal March. Isobel’s second girl was demanding to go on the stage. Margaret and her husband were going to run a chicken farm in Devonshire -“And how anyone can deliberately set out to get mixed up with hens is beyond me.”

Miss Silver confessed that she would not care about it herself, but added that Margaret always knew exactly what she wanted to do, and that once her mind was made up it was no use trying to stop her.*

“Obstinate as a mule,” said Randal March.

It was obvious that no serious business would be discussed while they were still upon the road. Arrived at the house, they were met by Rietta March. The beauty which had once been rather austere was now softened by happiness. Miss Silver recalled the lines which she had heard applied to her when they had first been thrown together-“A daughter of the gods, divinely tall-” Her favourite Lord Tennyson had completed them with “and most divinely fair,” but Rietta Cray was a dark goddess, and in those days a tragic one, since the shadow of murder had rested upon her and hers- a shadow which Miss Silver had been instrumental in lifting. [see *Miss Silver Comes to Stay.] She looked younger now than she had then, and there was a carnation bloom in her cheeks. She kissed Miss Silver warmly and enquired, “When would you like to talk-now or after tea?”

Randal March said,

“Now, I think. And I want to take her into the drawing-room. This has got to be just a social visit, and you never know how things will get round.”

“Very well, I’ll go up to the children. You can call when you are ready for me to come down.”

Miss Silver watched her go away from them up the stairs graceful and gracious in a dress of dark red wool, one of the chrysanthemum shades. Then Randal was taking her into a pleasant room with flowered chintzes and big jars of dahlias, golden rod, and Michaelmas daisy. Seating herself and looking about her with pleasure, she reflected upon the happy atmosphere which filled the house. Although she had disciplined herself very severely in the matter of having favourites amongst her pupils, there was no contesting the fact that Randal March had always had a very special place in her affections. He had been a spoilt, delicate little boy when she arrived to superintend the schoolroom which he shared with two elder sisters. Previous governesses had pronounced him unmanageable, and he was too delicate to be sent to school. After two years of a rule which had combined authority, interest, and beneficence the delicacy had been outgrown, and a deep and enduring respect had been implanted in his mind. When, many years afterwards, he encountered Miss Silver in her capacity as a private enquiry agent, the respect was enhanced and the lively affection of the little boy developed into the enduring friendship and affection of the man. It was the horrible affair of the Poisoned Caterpillars which brought them together, and he had been forward to maintain that she had saved his life. Since those days he had become, first Superintendent at Ledlington, and then Chief Constable of the county, and their paths had continued to cross. He leaned back now in one of the comfortable chintz-covered chairs and said,